


Strands Tied Together

by kasumixkira



Series: At a Glance [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Braiding kink, M/M, tenderness & intimacy without smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasumixkira/pseuds/kasumixkira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little (and slightly intimate) moment at camp somewhere between the Trollshaws and Rivendell, in which Bilbo learns the practicality of Dwarven hair braiding—Fíli seats Bilbo down and braids his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strands Tied Together

**Author's Note:**

> [Hobbit-kink Prompt Fill](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=4426306#t4426306)  
>  And I have no beta, so I apologize for any mistakes I have made (and will correct them as I find them).

Bilbo gratefully dropped his pack and himself to the ground, rocks and sticks be damned for the moment. He often took long walks through the Shire, but the pace Thorin set was brutal and uncomfortable in the case of the dampness clinging to their clothes and cloaks. The loss of their ponies to the Trolls certainly did not help matters, either, and Bilbo had not earned any favors for being the cause of it. His legs ached worse than when he rode Myrtle, and his feet as well protected as they were, felt each sharp and uneven surface.

The others had already begun setting up camp while he rested (much to his shame): Dwalin scouted the perimeter with Nori, Fíli and Glóin gathered firewood while Kíli and Thorin tried to snare a few rabbits to supplement their waning supplies (the young brothers being kept apart to temporarily spare the company from their mischief), Dori instructed Ori in arranging stones for the fire pit, and Bombur, with the help of Bofur, pulled stock from their packs and prepared it to be cooked. Gandalf lit his pipe, watching the proceedings, as Balin, Óin, and Bifur spread out the bedrolls and settled down for the night. With a huff and the want to be useful, Bilbo pushed himself to his tired feet and offered his services to the cooks, where he was readily accepted by the brothers with smiles and friendliness.

“Aye, sure Mister Baggins, ye can peel these here.” Bofur said, thrusting a small sack into the Halfling’s hands.

Having not packed a cooking blade, he cleared his throat, “A knife, if you please, Mister Bofur.”

The miner produced a small paring knife out from Bombur’s pack and offered it over with a grin. “Careful; it’s sharp, and ye’ll need all yer fingers to burgle Smaug the Terrible.” His tone kept its usual lightness, so Bilbo took no offence at the jab to his knife skills (he might be lousy with a sword, but by Hobbit standards, he had excellent quality when it came to food). He laughed uneasily, instead, trying not to think of the Dragon waiting in Erebor. Bofur went on to babble about the possible horrors of stealing from a Worm with a few fingers missing, but the Hobbit drifted into his own thoughts (if only to keep himself from fainting again) on where he had landed himself by running off on this adventure.

In the weeks since leaving Bag End, Bilbo felt only a small sense of belonging among his companions and often tried not to be bothersome. Gandalf, of course, provided good conversation and a sense of comfort (being familiar to him and all). Of the others, Dwarves were notoriously distrustful, as he had come to learn, but a few accepted him. Most notably, Bofur stuck by his side with easy companionship and an interest in telling tales (no matter how appalling to Bilbo’s imagination) and liked hearing them in return. Ori proved to be a sweet lad, appealing to the simple nature of Hobbits with his love of the gentler arts (not to say that Ori is not also a reasonable warrior, in his own way). Even Balin, more of a neutral party, answered Bilbo’s curiosity about Dwarven practices and history.

Fíli and Kíli also stood near Bilbo and endeared themselves to him. Tricksters, he found them to be, but he did not mind (reminded him of his Took cousins, they did), even when their jests were sometimes at his expense; there was no real wickedness in them. He enjoyed their humor and their mirth, and the lightness they give to the Company. Fíli especially drew his attention. They had talked at Bag End (it seemed so long ago, now), and hiding behind his confidence and youth, Bilbo found strength and determination and no small amount of love for kith and kin. He found reassurance in the Dwarf’s easy smiles and the warmth and welcome he felt when the other spoke to him.

Glóin and Fíli returned, arms laden with dry timber, and they quickly coaxed up a roaring blaze. Bilbo stood off to the side, having been moved from his seat by the sudden rush of flame, awkwardly balancing peeled potatoes, the nearly empty sack, and a knife stabbed through one of the tubers. He did not move for fear of dropping everything and getting in the way, but he had a clear view of Fíli, the fire reflecting on his tallow hair, on the braids swinging about his shoulders, as the lad excitedly spoke with Glóin, who instructed him on the finer points of fire making. Fíli, as if feeling his stare, flashed a grin in his direction, making Bilbo’s legs feel even more unsteady. He would not allow himself to dwell on how he found Fíli handsome.

Suddenly noticing Bilbo’s plight, Bombur relieved the Hobbit of his burdens and distracted his attention away from the young heir (to his relief). Together, they chopped the veggies into a pot set to boil, the Dwarf adding this and that to creating a delicious-smelling stew. As a creature of the Shire, naturally Bilbo was drawn to appreciate Bombur’s attention to flavor, more so on the road when good supplies were scarce to come by. Even if the Dwarf was not much of a conversationalist like his brother, they still found common ground in the discussion of spices and herbs and how they were used in comparison between Hobbits and Dwarves.

The lull of the camp was broken by heavy footsteps as the remaining Dwarves came back from their duties. Bilbo, who had remained standing where he was, staring off distractedly into nothing, after Bombur left the stew to simmer and went to tend his own bedroll, jumped at the sound of Thorin’s voice, “Burglar, since you seem to be doing nothing, skin these,” and he handed over some skinny hares. The exiled king turned without another word to Bilbo, instead offering praise to Kíli for the hunt (naturally, the youngling beamed and gloated to his brother, which started some playful tousling that rolled into Óin and through Bofur’s bed space), before he went off to speak with Dwalin and Nori about their findings. 

Bilbo bristled at being ordered so by the Dwarf who had neither respect nor want for his presence, but if he was to be honest with himself, he did not particularly care for Thorin Oakenshield, either (no matter how much he wished to be accepted by the Company’s leader). Despite his feelings on the matter, the Halfling merely sighed and resigned himself to having blood under his fingernails, if only so another Dwarf did not have to pick up his slack. He borrowed a knife from Bombur again and situated himself on a fallen tree a little outside and downwind of camp, where Bofur kindly offered to help. Until this quest, the Hobbit had never skinned an animal, always having just to visit the butcher for meat. His stomach turned the first time he witnessed Bifur cleaning a deer and put him off supper for two nights. He grew used to it in the end and even assisted Bombur in the duty on some occasions, if only for the sake of his growling stomach. Now, while not an expert, Bilbo prided himself in being a quick study of the practice.

It was not long before dinner was served and eaten, and the night continued like those that came before it. Some songs were sung and a little merrymaking made, but the tone remained muted somewhat, them being in unfriendly territory and all. Bilbo kept himself close to the fire, Fíli and Kíli sitting near, and listened and laughed at Dwarven antics. He hummed along with the tunes he recognized and tapped his feet. As unmannered as they were, by Shire standards, he enjoyed their company and boisterousness, even more so when there was nothing to distract him from thinking of home and the comforts he had once taken advantage of.

As the night waned and most turned to slouch into their beds, Fíli inclined his head towards Bilbo and spoke, “Are you still curious about braids, Master Hobbit?”

Bilbo felt his cheek grow warm where the Dwarf’s breath touched, and he remembered the conversation they had earlier that day. On the road, Bilbo had questioned Fíli on his braids. Of course he noticed how well groomed they kept their manes and beards, and it got him wondering. Fíli explained what he could about the significance and practicality of the many twists of hair used in Dwarven culture, leaving Bilbo fascinated and a little bewildered.

Beards, as he came to understand it, showed the age and respectability of a Dwarf, which led him to comment, more a thought to himself, really, rather than a statement to the Company, “So, beards are like the hair on a Hobbit’s feet, then,” and in an instant, many of the Dwarves were nearly up in arms against Bilbo—Glóin most of all, whose beard had earned him the attention of his wife and was adorned with clasps of her making. Having very little knowledge on the customs of Hobbits and the importance they placed on their feet (which Ori eagerly asked of after the whole ordeal), the Company had assumed the worst of Bilbo’s statement.

The Halfling shuddered at that specific part of the memory, for he was sure the Dwarves would have loved nothing more than to skin him, had Gandalf not stepped in and allowed Bilbo to explain. “If there’s more to tell, I’d be delighted to hear it,” he replied, not wishing to repeat his earlier blunder and unintentionally insult another Dwarf (should he meet more in the future).

Fíli shifted and pulled Bilbo to sit, cross legged, between the Dwarf’s bent knees. “I’d thought to show you, instead.”

If felt as if breath would not come to his lungs, and he did not know what to do with himself for an instant. “No, I really don’t think that is necessary. I… I’m a Hobbit, Master Fíli, in case you have forgotten,” Bilbo stated quite anxiously, still a bit breathless and a little more than flustered. “A Hobbit with the hair of a Dwarf; just imagine, well, it would be quite the sight, I’m sure, and with no few reasons to laugh at.”

“I think you’d look mighty fine, Mister Bilbo,” Ori announced from his seat next to Dori on first watch, who shushed his little brother with a quiet “mind your own business, now, Ori,” and an arm around his shoulder.

Bilbo shot a brief smile at the lad, knowing his intentions were in the right place, but upon noticing the gleam from Gandalf’s direction and barely withheld laughter from some of the Company still clinging to wakefulness, he colored and ducked his head. Hobbit lads do not wear braids, he wanted to say, but he also feared adding another insult to his growing moments of cultural misunderstandings.

Fíli disregarded the protests born from shyness and ignored the sniggers, simply taking the Hobbit’s hair in hand and tugging it lightly. “You’ll see, Bilbo.” He stated the phrase simply, which brought the Halfling to notice Fíli’s distinct lack of title to his name and how he leaned closer into his back than was required.

Kíli, who reclined in his bedroll, added, “Fíli’s really good at braiding, too.”

“Unlike you, uncultured heathen—not enough practice,” the elder brother chided back playfully as he petted Bilbo’s curls. Kíli tossed a rock at Fíli, just glancing off his shoulder, and they both chortled as the stone bounced off Bombur’s stomach.

“I’ll practice more,” he closed his eyes, mumbling as sleep came to him, “eventually; when I’ve done something worth wearing braids.”

Fíli shook his head with a chuckle, the feeling reverberating through the Hobbit, and muttered something in Khuzdûl. All the while, Bilbo fidgeted where he sat, fingers never still as they twirled around each other or picked at the dirt on his trousers. His blood refused to rush slower through his veins, his body deciding all on its own that it liked the feel of Fíli’s warmth and Fíli’s hands on his scalp, and his ears liked the sound of Fíli’s voice when he spoke in the guttural tones of the Dwarven language. All in all, Bilbo felt particularly scandalized by how he was reacting to what should be a simple braiding demonstration, and he had enough of it.

Scooting forward and turning out of Fíli’s grasp, he faced the Dwarf. “Really, Master Fíli,” he tried to protest.

“Hush.”

Just that one word, spoken low and harsh on an exhale of breath, stopped Bilbo, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second, and he allowed himself to be pulled back until his shoulders met the fur lining of Fíli’s coat. Hands still on his shoulders pressed and moved with circular motion, loosening the tight muscles there before rubbing upwards and back down again. Bilbo felt somewhat like a cat, akin to the big tom that wandered into his garden from time to time for a bite of fish and a belly scratch—which Bilbo would indulge him in.

One more time, before all his senses left him, the Hobbit murmured, “Wouldn’t you rather sleep instead?”

He felt the shake of Fíli’s head. “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Defeated (or placated, he could not decide which), Bilbo drew his knees up to rest his chin upon and curled his arms around his calves, allowing the other do as he will.

The hair, curly and fine in Fíli’s hands, was hardly ideal for plaiting, but the fingers of the Dwarves, when in practice, were well trained in their craft and possessed a certain dexterity for intricate designs, no matter how small. He worked effortlessly, the first twist uncomplicated and done in a few mere minutes. A test of sorts, Bilbo figured, as the Dwarf pulled them out again, combing through the tangles and separating more strands to begin anew. Fíli worked slower in weaving the hair back and hummed, a deep rumble echoing in Bilbo’s chest, and the Halfling took comfort in the practiced movements and gentle strength of Fíli’s hands, in his warmth, in the smell of wood coals and the sound of Dwarves snoring. It almost felt like home (in a foreign sort of way), when his mother was still alive and when they would sit before the hearth, reading stories together.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” the Dwarf asked teasingly. “There are some things that can’t be learned with only words.”

Spoken with less conviction, Bilbo repeated his earlier gripe, “I still hold that I shall look ridiculous.”

“And to say so would be to doubt my skill, Master Hobbit.”

Fíli chuckled quietly when Bilbo shook his head as if to apologize.

“Though, I admit to never having worked with Hobbit hair before. Braiding is primarily familial; parents teaching children, and I practiced on Kíli’s hair, but he doesn’t let me anymore.”

“Then, braiding my hair, you’re… we’re not family and barely acquaintances.”

“I’d like to think of us as friends.”

Fíli’s admission made him smile. “So when you say ‘primarily familial’?”

“There are braids between brothers-in-arms and of course,” he paused, his voice a bare whisper, “between lovers.”

Heat erupted across Bilbo’s face, and he dared not hope.

“We’re tied together, Bilbo,” Fíli spoke softly into his ear as he tied a strip of leather around the weave tails, and Bilbo felt his heart stop, looking maybe deeper into the words than Fíli intended, as the Dwarf continued, “You’re part of our Company. You’ve walked with us through hard days, felt hunger like us, faced Trolls, and worried through the long nights on uncomfortable beds.”

Unable to dispute the statement or form a decent reply, he sputtered, “Yes, well… I don’t think the remaining Company sees me as such a useful companion.”

“Don’t they?” Fíli grabbed the Halfling’s hand and rubbed at a bit of dried blood stained across his knuckles while Bilbo considered his meaning. He thought of all the Dwarves and how they had protected him, even laid down their weapons, against the Trolls; how they sometimes asked him to join in the sharing songs; how even those who did not necessarily approve his presence still nodded their thanks to him at meals or when he took the dishes to be washed and listened when he told stories of the Shire, shared the misfortunes he or his cousins used to get up to as younglings.

And while Bilbo thought, they sat together quietly for those moments, Fíli leaning into Bilbo, nose against the back of the Hobbit’s neck and still holding his hand. The logs crackled in the fire pit and Ori’s knitting needles clacked together. Fíli smelt of the Dwarven pipe weed, strong and slightly bitter to Bilbo’s senses, and his hand slowly caressed up and over the Halfling’s own, from fingertip to wrist bone and under along veins and palm. 

Lips pressed for the briefest second to Bilbo’s nape before Fíli spoke again. “To sleep now, Bilbo.”

And Bilbo knew it had to be so, for a long day awaited them at dawn. Fíli helped him to his feet and squeezed his hand one last time before joining his brother. He sneaked (like the Burglar Gandalf claimed him to be) over to his own bedroll, somewhere across the fire and on the other side of Bifur, glancing towards the two brothers on watch. Dori kept his eyes on the forest and darkness beyond instead of following the Hobbit’s near-silent footsteps, unlike Ori, who gazed in wonder. Bilbo hardly cared; though, he might blush in the morning when either brother set their eyes upon him.

With a hand that indulged to run along the ribs of braided hair, Bilbo tucked himself in his blankets and grinned, a secret smile just for himself, and closed his eyes, knowing that he had a place among the Company, and maybe, just maybe, there was hope still for new affections and friendships and something deeper before this journey’s end.


End file.
